


She's Beauty; She's Grace

by T_Ninja



Series: For the Mission [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-10-15 01:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/T_Ninja/pseuds/T_Ninja
Summary: Root and Shaw are back at it, this time working a large-scale mission that involves forty six numbers. As usual, hijinks and shenanigans ensue. This is a continuation of the Crazy in Love AU.





	1. Miss Congeniality

Shaw walked into Harold's office where he and John were discussing the most recent numbers.  
  
"So what's on the agenda for today, Finch?" Shaw asked as she plopped herself down onto the nearby armchair and swung her legs over one of the armrests. She opened the paper bag that she was carrying and pulled out a breakfast burrito that she had picked up on the way there, taking a huge bite. "Please tell me I get to shoot someone," she mumbled through a mouthful of food.  
  
Harold wrinkled his nose at the half-chewed food threatening to catapult from Shaw's mouth as she spoke.  
  
"We have quite a unique case today, Ms. Shaw. Forty six numbers have come up."  
  
Shaw sat up from her position on the chair and audibly swallowed a mouthful of food. "Forty six? That's a first."  
  
Harold nodded. "The numbers appear to be from all over the country. In fact, each number appears to be from a different state."  
  
"Do we even have the resources to go chasing these people across the country?" Shaw asked.  
  
"Coincidentally, Ms. Shaw, all of our numbers will be congregating at the same location - the Anaheim Convention Center in California. Our numbers-" Harold walked over to the board displaying the photographs of each individual- "are the contestants in this year's Miss America competition."  
  
"Holy shit, that's still a thing?" Shaw asked bluntly.  
  
"It's one of the biggest scholarship programs in the country," Harold pointed out.  
  
"Okay, but you said we had forty six numbers."  
  
"I did."  
  
"Well aren't there fifty contestants in this pageant?"  
  
"Actually, four of the contestants were just recently arrested for their involvement in an underground gambling ring; the delegates from California, Texas, D.C. and Massachusetts." Harold paused. "Ms. Shaw, we will need someone to go undercover as one of the replacements. This will enable us to monitor the situation from the inside and find out the source of the threat."  
  
"No."  
  
"Ms. Shaw, we need to have someone on the inside-"  
  
"Why me?" Shaw interrupted. "Aren't I-" she can't believe she was about to say this- "a bit short for the part? Why don't you ask Root the Amazonian to do it?"  
  
"Ms. Groves is currently working a relevant mission for the Machine. Ms. Shaw, you are our next best option."  
  
Shaw rolled her eyes. "Figures," she muttered.  
  
"Not that we had any other options," Harold added under his breath.  
  
"What was that?" Shaw snapped.

“Oh, ah, nothing.”

  
"You don't think I can pull this off, Harold?" Shaw accused.  It was a matter of pride, now. "Alright, you want beauty queen bimbo? I can do beauty queen bimbo. Watch this."  
  
Shaw hopped off the chair where she was sitting and began to strut around the office, waving her hand, fluttering her eyelashes and flashing a thousand-watt smile.  
  
"It looks like you're having a stroke, Shaw," Reese commented from his corner, earning a scowl from Shaw. "I'm not used to your face looking like that."  
  
"Why don't _you_ do it then? You got the height for it," Shaw shot back.  
  
"I would, but I don't look as good in a bikini."  
  
"A bikini?!” Shaw spat. “Wait a minute. So, not only do I have to do the hair and makeup and dress thing, but I have to prance around in a bikini too?" She slumped back into the armchair. "Someone shoot me now. Better yet, I'll save you the trouble and shoot myself."  
  
"Ms. Shaw, please. This is the biggest case we've had yet. Forty six lives may be at risk," Harold pleaded.  
  
"Are you sure we can't just call them and tell them that there's a threat so that they could cancel the stupid thing?"  
  
"I tried to call with a warning, but the organization is steadfast in their intent to move forward with the pageant."  
  
Shaw pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance and growled. "Fine. But you owe me for this, Finch. I don't know how I'm gonna make you pay yet, but you owe me. Big time."  
  
Harold sighed. "I suppose that's only fair."  
  
"Alright so what's the plan?" Shaw asked.  
  
"Well first of all we'll have to provide a convincing cover for you. The Machine will help us with that. We'll pick a your home state and the Machine will take care of the rest." Harold set down four folders on his desk, representing the four eligible states.  
  
Reese rifled through the options. "How about Texas, Shaw? Remember that time you went undercover as a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys? I bet that would look great on your profile."

Shaw shook her head. "How could I forget? Nuh uh. My southern accent sucks. Besides, the only ones that get chosen from Texas are all-American girl-next-door types with names like Ann Smith. There's no way anyone would believe that the Lone Star state chose an angry Persian assassin to be its delegate. Hard pass."  
  
"California?" Reese suggested.  
  
"Actually, I think California maybe our safest option," Harold mused. "California residents come from all over the country, so there is no need to worry about getting the right accent or the right look."  
  
"Alright, fine. California. Now tell your Machine to hurry up and spit out my new cover identity so we can get on with it."  
  
As soon as Shaw finished talking, the printer in the corner of Harold's office animated and printed out a series of pages. Harold hobbled over to the printer and retrieved the pages. He briefly flipped through the pages before placing them into a folder and handing it to Shaw.  
  
"Ms. Shaw, I believe this is your new cover."  
  
Shaw glared at Harold as she took the papers from him and read over her file.  
  
"Selina Windsor from Los Angeles, California. Hobbies include martial arts, target shooting and racing cars. Not a bad start, I guess,” she admitted with a shrug.

  
"The Machine crafted your cover identity so that your - ahem - talents would not seem suspect should you need to use them during the mission." Harold explained.  
  
Shaw thumbed through the rest of the file, familiarizing herself with the profile. When she finished, she closed the folder and tossed it onto Harold's desk. "Okay, I'm ready. So what do we do next? Book a flight to Anaheim?"  
  
"Not quite yet," Harold said, snapping an unexpected photo of Shaw on his phone.  
  
"What the hell was that, Finch!?"  
  
"We needed a photo of you for your Miss America profile, Ms. Shaw." Harold looked down at the photo he had just taken. "Oh my."  
  
"What?" Shaw snapped.  
  
Reese peered over Harold's shoulder. "It's nothing, Shaw. It's just...your face..."  
  
"What about my face?" Shaw growled.  
  
"You just look like you're about to murder someone."  
  
"That's because I am. Both of you. But especially you, Finch,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at Harold, “for making me do this stupid ass mission."  
  
Harold took a few steps back. "There's no need for violence, Ms. Shaw. Now, I just have to send this picture to the stylist-"  
  
"Wait. What stylist? You never mentioned a stylist before."  
  
"Every contestant needs to have themselves styled so that they look pageant ready. It's standard procedure."  
  
Shaw huffed. "What's next - an etiquette coach?" she asked sarcastically.  
  
"Well..."  
  
"Oh for fuck's sake, Finch!"  
  
"Please watch your language, Ms. Shaw." Harold pulled out a pocket-sized notepad from his breast pocket. "That will be the first to go," he muttered.  
  
"Wait - _you're_ going to be my etiquette coach?!"  
  
"Well we can't risk you shooting anyone else who's willing to try, Shaw." Reese pointed out.  
  
Shaw shrugged. "Fair point."  
  
Harold handed Shaw a business card. "The Machine has ordered tailored outfits for you, Ms. Shaw. Please pick them up at the location specified on the card."  
  
"Alright. Got it," Shaw said as she took the card and turned to leave.  
  
"And please try not to get any food stains on the clothes!" Harold called to Shaw's retreating back as she slammed the door shut.  
  
"Well that went well," Reese mused. "You think that Shaw can handle this on her own?"  
  
"Honestly, Mr. Reese, I'm afraid to find out."


	2. Dressing the Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw goes to try on some pageant outfits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little chapter before the fun stuff starts. Thanks for reading! :)

Shaw arrived at the address printed on the business card, which happened to be a high-end, hoity toity dress shop specializing in pageant wear. As soon as she stepped through the fancy glass doors, she wanted to immediately turn around and nope right out of there. Fuck this mission. And fuck Harold and his glasses.

"Ah, Miss Selina Windsor, is it?" a petite woman trotted out to meet her.

Shaw nodded tersely. "It is."

"Welcome, Miss Windsor. My name is Anita Warren, and I've been expecting you." She smiled widely, showing two rows of perfectly white teeth. "Although I do see that you're a teensy bit late." The woman's perkiness and condescending tone were already grating on Shaw's nerves.

Shaw put on her best fake smile. "My apologies," she said through her teeth.

_I just really did not want to be here_ , she added silently.

"Oh, no need to apologize, sweetheart -just as long as you don't do it again." The woman had the audacity to then boop Shaw on the nose to punctuate her threat. Shaw clenched her hands tightly and tried very, very hard to refrain from booping Anita right back. With her fist.

"We've received the measurements and specifications for your outfits, Miss Windsor. I've put them all up in fitting room one," Anita motioned for Shaw to follow her towards the fitting rooms. "I'll be here to assist you throughout the process. If you have any questions, just give us a holler and I'll be right there."

"Thanks, but I can manage just fine on my own," Shaw said, stepping into the fitting room and quickly pushing the door closed before Anita can follow her in.

Shaw pressed her back up against the fitting room door and breathed out a relieved sigh. She looked up at the assortment of outfits hung up on the hooks of the fitting room and groaned. She grabbed a black evening dress off of one of the hooks and reluctantly maneuvered herself into it. This was not what she signed up for when she joined Harold's stupid rag-tag team. And Root wasn't even here to share in her misery. Shaw decided she'd call to check in on the hacker. Not that she missed her or anything; she just wanted to make sure that Root wasn't off somewhere getting herself killed, which would be a big inconvenience for their team. And for future missions. Shaw pressed the button on her earpiece, opening up the comm lines.

"Hey sweetie."

"Root, if you don't come back soon, I can't be held accountable for my actions. And by actions, I mean murdering Finch."

"I'd love to chat, but I'm a little occupied at at moment, Sam," Root said as sounds of gunshots rang out in the background.

"Wait, are you shooting at people? Dammit, I want to shoot at people! But all I get to do now is try on tight fitting outfits-" Shaw paused to pull down the hem of her dress- "and walk on ridiculously high heels while Dolores Umbridge circles outside like a hawk."

Shaw heard a series of gunshots and then a pained hiss come from the other side of the line. "Root - are you okay? Are you hit?"

"I'm fine, sweetie. Nothing a little duct tape can't fix in a bind. I'll stitch it up later when I'm done taking care of these Neanderthals." There was a slight strain in Root's voice, no doubt caused by the pain of her injury.

"You better come see me as soon as you get back."

"Miss me already, Sameen? It's only been a week." Even when injured, Root still managed to squeeze in a little bit of flirtation. Typical.

"No, I just want to make sure that you patch yourself up properly. The last thing we need is for you to get your wound infected and die of sepsis."

"You say the sweetest things."

Shaw rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Root."

"Miss Windsor?" Anita called from the other side of the door, "how are things looking in there? Do you need any assistance with the outfits?"

"Oh, she sounds lovely," Root remarked with a teasing lilt. "Guess you better go, sweetie. I'll see you soon."

After disconnecting the line, Shaw shifted uncomfortably in her dress and turned to open the door, not even trying to hide the unimpressed look on her face. Anita gasped as she took in the vision of Shaw standing there in her flowing black evening gown.

"My goodness, Miss Windsor - you look incredible! I must admit you clean up very nicely."

Shaw wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment.

"That was a compliment, Miss Windsor," Anita said, looking at Shaw expectantly.

"Oh. Uh, thank you?" Shaw tried.

Anita grinned widely "You're very welcome, Miss Windsor. Well, it looks like you'll have no problems with the outfit portion of the competition - thanks to me - but your etiquette definitely needs some brushing up on,” she tsked. “I'm sure your etiquette coach will have you acting like a lady in no time."

Shaw clenched her fist so hard that her arm started to tremble.

"Oh, look at you - poor thing, trembling with nervousness already. Don't you worry, Miss Windsor, you'll do just fine. I dare say you might even make it to the top twenty."

Top _twenty_?!?

Shaw opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted with the ringing of her cell phone. Harold.

"Excuse me, I have to take this," Shaw said to Anita through a forced smile. She turned around and stepped back into the fitting room, slamming the door in Anita's face. Shaw fished the phone out from the pocket of her jacket and answered the call.

"I'm going to kill this woman, Finch," Shaw gritted through her teeth.

"Ms. Shaw, I would highly recommend that you refrain from any unnecessary acts of violence."

"Oh, but this act of violence is very, very necessary."

"Ms. Shaw!"

Shaw huffed. "Fine, Harold. We'll do it your way. I'm almost finished here with the fittings - what do you plan on torturing me with next?"

"You have a stylist appointment at 2pm. I'll send the details to your phone."

"Got it," Shaw confirmed when she received the details on her phone.

"Miss Windsor! Now let's take a look at how that swimsuit looks on you," Anita called cheerily from the other side of the door.

Shaw groaned. This day can't end soon enough.


	3. Pygmalion

"So how long has she been in there for?" Fusco asked Reese as he sipped from his paper coffee cup. They were sitting inside an SUV parked outside of a warehouse where Shaw was supposedly getting a "makeover."

Reese glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "It's been almost four hours, now."

"Four hours?!" Fusco exclaimed. "Geez. What could be taking so long? Shaw's a good looking broad - don't ever tell her I said that - so I don't understand why it would take so long to give her a makeover. How much makeup are they putting on her face? Enough for an entire circus clown posse?"

"Apparently she's getting the 'full meal deal,' whatever that means," Reese replied.

"It means that they want to remove every hair on my body that's not on my head. And you better believe I'm fighting them every step of the way."

"Uhhh Shaw?"

"What, Reese? You don't think I bugged you guys? Lionel wears the same suit three times a week. Could've at least made it challenging for me."

Reese looked over at Fusco who was trying to dab at a fresh coffee stain on his three-day-old tie. "What? You can't expect me to dress as sharp as Wonderboy here on the salary that I'm making," Fusco said with a shrug.

"You've got a point there, Lionel," Reese admitted.

"So when are you coming outta there, Miss Congeniality?" Fusco asked.

"In about three seconds," Shaw answered.

The doors to the warehouse opened up just then and Shaw strutted out in what almost seemed like slow motion. She looked amazing; donning a figure hugging black dress that accentuated all of her curves, with her dark hair flowing behind her blown by the wind, and the make up on her face perfectly highlighting her sharp cheekbones and full pouty lips.

Fusco and Reese got out of the car, Lionel starring slack jawed at the vision before them.

"Is that Shaw? I've never seen her look so...nice. It's like she's a completely different person."

Shaw shuffled up to the men as fast as she could in the tight black dress that she was wearing.

"Thank god that's over. I don't ever want to look at another waxing strip again in my life," she huffed, reaching under her dress to pull out a flask that was held there by a makeshift duct tape thigh holster. She then reached into the front of her dress and pulled out two Boston creme donuts, taking a giant bite from one of the donuts and following with a healthy swig from her flask. "I was starving in there."

"Aaaaaaaaand there she is," Fusco commented.

Shaw looked over at him. "So Fusco, what're you doing here?"

"Had some time off. Lee's visiting his mother this weekend so I thought I'd tag along and watch you charm the judges with your beauty and grace."

Shaw rolled her eyes. "Great, now I gotta deal with you too. I'm just hoping we can catch the perp before it gets to the actual competition stage," she said as she stuffed the rest of her donut into her mouth.

Reese looked completely grossed out watching her eat. "What, and miss the opportunity to see you onstage?" he quipped.

"Not you too, John," Shaw pointed a warning finger at him.

"Ah, Ms. Shaw," Harold said, approaching the three of them. "I see you've finished with your - er - makeover."

Shaw turned around and glared at him. "Was that really necessary, Harold? It's not like I'm actually gunning for the title or anything."

"To ensure your cover identity remains intact, Ms. Shaw, we must take this one step at a time - in order. We do not want to draw attention to ourselves by skipping any procedures that the other contestants are required to go through."

"Ugh, I can't wait for this nightmare of a mission to be over," Shaw groaned, taking a bite out of the second donut.

"Hey, where's _my_  donut?" Fusco jokingly demanded, "Sharing is caring, Shaw. Didn't you smuggle any extras for me?"

Shaw glared at Fusco and pointedly took an extra large bite of her donut.

"We have a meeting with the director of the pageant tomorrow morning to go over the mission objectives. We want her to know that we will do everything in our power to ensure that the perpetrator is apprehended quickly and that the young ladies in this competition will remain safe."

"You mean I actually have to meet and talk to these people?" Shaw asked.

Harold flinched as a few donut crumbs came spewing out of Shaw's mouth while she talked. "Ms. Shaw, perhaps you'd like to join me for dinner tonight to discuss the details of your cover identity? It would be my treat."

Shaw shrugged. "As long as you're paying for it, I'm game."

.

Ms. Shaw, thank you for joining me for dinner tonight," Harold said as he and Shaw were being shown to their seats by the hostess at a fancy upscale restaurant. "I'd like to take this opportunity to discuss the meeting with the pageant director tomorrow," he said as he sat down at the table.

"Basically you want to make sure that I don't make you look bad in front of the beauty queen curators. I get it," Shaw said, plopping down on her chair.

"Rather a crude way of putting it, but I suppose that's apt," Harold replied.

"As long as they don't talk down to me, there's nothing to worry about, Finch."

"That's what concerns me," Harold said warily. "Ms. Shaw, these people have been in this profession for decades; they speak down to everybody. All I ask is that you carefully consider your options before automatically resorting to violence."

Shaw opened her mouth to answer, but paused. Her right hand shot out and grabbed at the server whose hand was hovering above her lap. She turned her head and glared at the server who immediately started to tremble.

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle. I was just placing your napkin-"

"I got it - thanks," Shaw said lowly to the server as she released her death grip on his arm.

The server handed the napkin to Shaw and scurried away as soon as she took it from his shaking hands.

Shaw looked back up to see the exasperated look in Harold's face. "What? It's not like I stabbed him or anything. He was just all up in my personal space."

"As I was saying, Ms. Shaw," Harold pressed on, "your cover identity is delicate as it is. We can't risk having you disqualified when the perpetrator is still at large. Can you just _try_  to restrain yourself from unnecessary violence?"

Shaw rolled her eyes and groaned. "Fine, Finch. Whatever it takes to get this over with as soon as possible."

Harold looked up as their server - a different server - approached their table.

"Monsieur, mademoiselle. What can I get for you this evening?"

"I'll have the sablefish, please," Harold said.

"Very good. And madamoiselle?"

"I'll have the filet mignon, medium rare. Wait - how big are the portions?"

The server paused and indicated the portion size with a show of his hand.

Shaw nodded. "I'll take two orders, then. And a glass of single malt scotch. Neat, and aged at least 18 years."

The server nodded as he jotted down the order. "We usually recommend the Malbec to pair with the filet mignon," he suggested.

Shaw shrugged. "Throw in a bottle of that too, then."

"Ms. Shaw-"

"What? You said you were going to treat me to dinner."

Harold sighed. "Very well," he looked up at the server. "Thank you, Marcel. That will be all."

They had a rather uneventful dinner, except at one point when Shaw took out the fold-up knife from her thigh holster to cut up the steak because they had forgotten to give her a steak knife. Harold nearly popped a blood vessel when he saw the knife and quickly flagged down a server to being her a steak knife.

As they left the restaurant after finishing dinner and dessert, Harold reached into his breastpocket and produced the pocketbook that he had been using to take notes over the past few days.

"Ms. Shaw, I've written down a few notes that I believe may help make you more...endearing to the pageant director tomorrow." Harold took out a pen, opened his pocketbook and flipped through the pages, scanning the notes that he had written. He hovered his pen over the pages, intending to underline the points that he deemed to be most important. He eventually closed the book with a sigh and handed it to Shaw, who took the book and thumbed through the pages.

"You ever come across a five-syllable word that you didn't like?" she asked sarcastically.

Harold stiffened and sputtered indignantly so Shaw decided to give him a break. "Alright, Finch, I'll take a look at this tonight. Don't worry about tomorrow, I know how a cover identity works. I've been doing this for a long time before I met you, remember?"

Harold seemed to relax imperceptibly at Shaw's assurance. He took out a business card from his pocket and handed it to Shaw. "Goodnight, Ms. Shaw, thank you for joining me for dinner tonight. I will meet you tomorrow morning at nine at the pageant director's office - the address is listed on the business card."

"Can't wait," Shaw muttered sarcastically as she took the card from Harold.

.

The next morning Shaw and Harold met at the address, where they were led by the receptionist to the pageant director's office.

"If you would just take a seat, Ms. Fünbaags will be right with you," the receptionist said, as she left the room.

Shaw waited until the receptionist was out of earshot before leaning forward to take a look at the name plate placed neatly on the desk.

"Candace Funbags?" Shaw snorted, showing the nameplate to Harold, "did she do one those things where she had to combine the name of her first pet and the name of the street she grew up on? Because this sounds a lot like the name of a strip-"

"It's Swedish, actually," a stern voice interrupted Shaw.

Shaw froze, mouthing "whoops" to Harold before putting the name plate back down on the desk. She turned around toward the door and was met with who she could only assume was a throughly unimpressed Candace Fünbaags.

"Mr. Whistler; Miss Windsor. I wish I could say that it's a pleasure to meet you, but our current circumstance begs to differ."

Harold stood up from his seat. "Ms. Fünbaags, please forgive Miss Windsor, she was simply trying to lighten the mood."

Candace Fünbaags nodded, gesturing to the man who accompanied her into the office. "This is Stan Fields. He's been the host of the Miss America event for the past twelve years."

Shaw and Harold shook hands with both Candace and Stan and took their seats across from them.

"So, I'm told that there may be a threat against my - excuse me - _the_ pageant?" Candace asked, settling into her seat.

"Yes, Ms.- er- Fünbaags. We have reason to believe that someone is targeting the Miss America pageant and that all of the delegates may be in grave danger." Harold replied.

"Well who would do such a thing?" Stan asked in disbelief, "These young women are such amazing, gorgeous specimens. Why would anyone want to destroy that?"

"That's what we're here to find out," Harold said, "with your cooperation, of course."

"And how exactly are you planning to find out?" Candace asked.

"We are hoping to have someone go undercover as one of the contestants, replacing The delegate from New York, who recently had to withdraw from the competition."

"Don't remind me," Candace said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"This plan will allow us to have insider access at all times," Harold continued. "The access will be extremely helpful in quickly identifying and apprehending the perpetrator."

"Do you have someone in mind?" Candace asked.

Harold glanced over at Shaw.

Candace snorted. "You're kidding!" She eyed Shaw up and down. "You want to send _her_?"

"I wasn't exactly scrambling for the job either," Shaw muttered.

"Well _I_ think she looks the part," Stan added.

"Oh, shut up, Stan." Candace rolled her eyes at her coworker.

"Look, lady," Shaw jumped in, "The way I see it, you have two options: you either let me in undercover as a contestant and help me get to at least the final five, or you don't and end up having the blood of fifty innocent young ladies on your hands and will have to live with that for the rest of your life. So what will it be?"

Candace crossed her arms, sulkily contemplating her two options.

"Or there's always the third option of cancelling the pagean-"

"No! Absolutely not!" Candace exclaimed. She huffed. "Fine. You will be entered as one of our contestants, but you have to put in the work. We will not simply place you in the top five because you need to be there. We are a reputable organization, and we cannot stand to be exposed as frauds. That would be unfair to the contestants."

"Well so is judging them based on how good their asses look in a swimsuit," Shaw shot back.

"What Miss Windsor meant to say," Harold cut in quickly before the feud escalated any further, "is that she will try her best to ensure that she is placed in the top five - without compromising the integrity of the organization and its members."

This seemed to placate the director, and she settled back into her chair.

"There will be an orientation brunch in two days in San Antonio. I'll have Cathy our receptionist give you the details," Candace said.

"Looking forward to seeing you again among the beautiful faces," Stan said with a smile.

Candace shot Stan a death glare. "See you in two days," she said to Shaw, "And I hope for all of our sakes that you manage to miraculously develop some poise and manners by then."

"I wouldn't hold my breath on that," Shaw mumbled through her teeth.

"What was that?" Candace asked.

"Uh, I said you can bet on that," Shaw responded. "Anyway, guess we should be on our way now," she said, standing up and heading towards the door. "I'm sure you've got some very important beauty pageant matters to attend to."

Harold stood up and quickly followed suit, nodding to Candace and Stan as he headed out the door behind Shaw.

They spoke to Cathy the receptionist on the way out, who gave them the details for the itinerary in San Antonio. Shaw looked over the paperwork as they walked out of the building.

"Wait wait wait," Shaw said, stopping dead in her tracks, "it says here that we have rehearsals for a dance routine. No one mentioned anything about a dance routine!"

Harold peered at the itinerary. "It appears to be a requirement for all contestants, Im afraid," he said, quickly avoiding eye contact with Shaw and forging ahead.

"Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get worse," Shaw grumbled.

.

The flight to San Antonio was fairly uneventful, with Shaw gulping down half a dozen tiny bottles of Scotch and Harold eyeing her warily every time she'd screw open another bottle. Reese and Fusco had convinced him not to say anything to criticize her - if he'd prefer to live past his next birthday - and he wisely heeded their advice.

Once the plane landed, Shaw and Harold took a cab to the hotel where all of the contestants will be staying for the preliminary leg of their Miss America tour. Candace Fünbaags was there meeting and directing all of the contestants when they arrived.

"Hello Ms. Fünbaags. It's nice to see you again," Harold greeted as he and Shaw stepped out of the cab to meet Candace.

"Hello Mr. Whistler; Miss Windsor," she glanced at Shaw's outfit - a dark grey, form-fitting dress topped with a lighter grey blazer with sleeves that ended just past the elbows. The outfit was classy without crossing the line into news-anchor-from-your-grandmother's-time territory.

Deeming the outfit to be acceptable, Candace nodded and turned to Harold. "Mr. Whistler, if you can have Miss Windsor's luggage brought up to her hotel room, I'll take her to meet the other contestants.

Harold nodded and walked with the bellhop into the lobby to check in the bags.

Candace turned back to Shaw. "Come with me, Miss Windsor."

They walked toward a tourist trolley with with the words 'ALAMO TROLLEY' splashed across the side in big block letters. Outside of the trolley was a line-up of women waiting to get in, and Stan Fields standing by the door of the vehicle with a clipboard to check everyone in.

One by one, the ladies checked in with Stan and stepped into the trolley. As Shaw approached him, she tripped and tumbled forward towards the ground. Her instincts kicked and and she quickly ducked her head in, performing a perfect tuck-and-roll and springing right back up onto her feet.

Candace, Stan and the rest of the ladies lining up stared in shock as Shaw casually smoothed down the front and back of her dress. She looked up to see everyone staring at her and scrambled to find a quick explanation.

"I, uh, used to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader," she said with a shrug.

There was a beat of silence and then a collective "ohhhhhhhh" of realization from the crowd.

Stan gave her a wink as she walked past him and stepped into the trolley. She immediately zeroed in on the seat in the very back, away from the other contestants. God forbid she'd have to make conversation with any of them. She walked to the back and plopped down into her seat with a sigh.

"Nice save back there, Shaw," Reese's gravelly voice came through the comms, "Never thought I'd live to see the day where you willingly admitted to being a cheerleader."

"Well now that you've lived to see it, maybe you can go and die," Shaw grumbled. She watched as the rest of the contestants started piling in. There was a whole lot of white sparkly smiles, big hair, and high pitched voices all around as the contestants introduced themselves to each other. It hurt her ears just listening to the squeals of glee that would break out every twenty seconds or so as the ladies bonded over their shared interest in beauty products or reality TV or whatever else it was that people squeal over. Then, a spontaneous rendition of 'Sweet Home Alabama' broke out amongst the crowd as Miss Alabama appeared. Shaw rubbed at her temples.

"Harold," she gritted through her teeth,  
"Get. Me. Out. Of. Here."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Shaw, but until we find out who he been threatening the lives of these young ladies, you'll have to keep your cover for a bit longer."

"I already know who the threat is. It's me. I going to shoot them all if you don't get me out of here," Shaw growled and turned off her earpiece, banging her forehead against the back of the empty chair in front of her.

"Excuse me darlin' - is this seat taken?" One of the girls asked in a saccharine, southern drawl.

Shaw rolled her eyes. "Nope. Be my guest," she said, waving at the empty seat next to her without looking up at the inquirer. Making eye contact means she'd have to make conversation, and Shaw would rather stun gun herself than make conversation with anyone on this bus - which she's pretty sure is headed to some kind of fresh hell.

"Thanks, sweetie. I must say, this outfit looks good on you. But you know what else would look good on you?"

Shaw froze.

"Root?" Shaw raised her head to look over at the woman sitting next to her.

"That's correct," Root said, flashing a thousand watt smile at Shaw. Shaw almost laughed in relief.

"What are you doing here, Root? Thought you were tied up on a mission for the Machine."

"I've completed the mission with a few days to spare, so I thought I'd stop by and give you a hand, if you catch my drift," Root waggled her eyebrows. "But enough with the dirty talk - I brought some friends with me," Root nodded her head towards two other contestants approaching them.

"Hey ladies - good to see you two lovebirds again," Joss Carter said with a huge smile as she and Zoe Morgan walked up to them.

"Wha - what are you guys doing here? Don't you have official FBI business to attend to?" Shaw asked.

"This IS official FBI business," Zoe replied. "Even though the preliminaries are taking place here in San Antonio, the actual finals will be held in Anaheim. Those are two very different local jurisdictions, so naturally the Feds are stepping in."

"And they chose their two sexiest agents to go undercover," Carter added. "Okay, well maybe we got Root to use her hacking skills to have us put on this assignment, but that doesn't change the reality of my first statement!"

"You two definitely are the sexiest FBI agents I know," Root said with a smile.

"We're the _only_  FBI agents you know, but thanks for the vote of confidence," Zoe said.

"Ladies, please take your seats!" Candace's voice boomed throughout the vehicle. "Now I'm sure that you have all heard by now about the four contestants who sadly have had to withdraw from the competition prior to the preliminaries, so I would now like to introduce you to the four young ladies who will be taking their place. Please join me in welcoming Miss August O'Neil from Massachusetts, Miss Naomi Knorr from District of Columbia, Miss Ann Smith from Texas, and Miss Selina Windsor from California. Ladies, please stand up so that we can see you.

Zoe, Carter, and Root cheerily stood up and waved to the remainder of the bus, while Shaw sat stubbornly with her arms crossed until Zoe and Carter reached back and hauled her up from her seat. Shaw gritted her teeth in a forced smile and waved to the rest of the ladies.

Shortly after, everyone took their seats again and turned their attention back to Candace. "Now, how about a little song for the road? I think you all know which one I'm taking about!"

Shaw looked at Root, Carter, and Zoe, who all gave her a shrug. Then, the rest of the bus slowly began singing first verse of the song: "From sea to shining sea, like Lady Liberty, she reigns over all she seeeeeeeeeeees. She's beauty and she's grace, she's Miss United States-"

Shaw looked over at her companions. "If you guys start singing, I'm going to shoot you."

"I guess we can cross off singing as one of her talents," Carter joked.

"Right about now, I'm hoping that faking my own death is one of my talents," Shaw grumbled.

"Oh! I'm actually pretty good at that one," Root said.

"I think this will be fun," Zoe piped in, "it's been a while since the four of us have hung out together. And really - what's the worst that could happen?"

Shaw shook her head. "I really don't want to know the answer to that question."

 


End file.
